


Okole Maluna

by rispacooper



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Drunkenness, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:43:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bit of writing practice. Drunk Steve and Danny talking drunkenly in a bar about the drunk sex they could be having and why they are not having it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Okole Maluna

**Author's Note:**

> Blame it on the alc-alc-alco-hundred proof vodka.

“I kind of want to fuck you.”

Because those words in that particular order are coming out of Steve McGarrett, Danny nearly does a spit take. If he were ever going to do something that hackneyed and cliché, he might have. As it is, he freezes for a second too long and so the tequila burns in his throat before he swallows and grabs a little desperately for a wedge of lime.

There’s a considerable pile of squeezed out, chewed up lime wedges already on the table between them, most of them Steve’s, because the Seal might feel comfortable driving boats and trucks and, probably, tanks, after a drink or two, but Danny’s a cop, and as a cop, he’s seen too many wrecks not to need to be the designated driver at times like these.

Besides, a bottle is a little more than a drink or two.

Nonetheless, he eyes the añejo like he sometimes eyes McGarrett when the man isn’t looking, longingly, but with more than a little trepidation. Then he licks his fruity, salty, vaguely numb lips and manages to speak.

“Come again?” he wheezes. Tequila, even the good stuff, eats holes in his esophagus. That’s what it is. But the words get out, and this, this is the silver lining on the storm cloud that was the decision to spend his free evening, every free evening, with a dickhead, sort-of-former Navy Seal who couldn’t admit when he’d had enough.

Danny probably just heard him wrong. The bar is loud. The booze is strong. And Danny has a tendency to let his mind run away with him when in the presence of hot people who lack personal space issues and respect for those who do.

Steve downs a shot without even a wince, as though that very expensive bottle that Danny had somehow paid for is only water, then sucks a piece of lime along with two of his fingers into his mouth. His lips are wet, like his fingers, and he makes obscene sucking and slurping noises until Danny swings his attention up into his eyes.

His eyes are shining, if heavy-lidded, and he’s staring at Danny. Staring, like…Danny doesn’t know how, or he does, and it’s like Steve is looking for the right club to bash Danny over the head. Like Captain Caveman wants to get laid.

“If this in any way involves blunt force trauma or a cave, I am going home,” Danny announces without thought, because, okay, he can admit to being a little tipsy here, but tequila and Steve McGarrett in his close proximity will do that to a guy.

Not quite across the small, round table, more like, across but getting incrementally closer to Danny’s side as the night wears on, Steve squints at him. It is an unpleasant, though, of course, still attractive, face. It says, “What the fuck, Danno?” or maybe something disparaging about New Jersey—a state Steve unfairly hates just because all Hawaii had to offer the world musically was Don Ho and one Elvis movie soundtrack.

After a moment in which Danny realizes that they both have been, holy shit, embarrassingly, staring at each other without speaking, the wrinkle between Steve’s dark, intense eyes smooths out, and then he wets lips that do not need wetting, and raises his voice like only someone who was truly wasted would do because he is already close to Danny and getting closer and so of course Danny can already hear every word that comes out of his fucking incredible mouth.

“I said—I kind of want to fuck you.” Steve repeats those incredible words slowly, as though Danny needs to wear a helmet when he goes out in public unsupervised. A few people walking by turn toward them, shocked, laughing, disgusted, Danny doesn’t really know, or give a fuck.

Clearly, neither does drunk Steve.

“Wait. Scratch that,” he corrects himself, getting even louder here, because this is Danny’s life. Danny takes a second to wave to the people twenty feet away who twist in their seats when Steve leans forward and adds, “I _really_ want to fuck you.”

There are, swear to God, _titters_ around them. Danny would flush, but he’s been burning up for the last…oh four months…so he is pretty sure he’s lost that ability.

“This is some joke you play on Mainlanders isn’t it? Like the new guy picks up the tab, only it’s get wasted and pretend to hit on Danny.”

“I’m not pretending.” Steve’s voice is husky. It’s not the booze; it always gets like that when they’re alone. Usually, this means in the car, arguing about how coconut milk is in no way, shape, or form actual milk or any kind of milk-like substance, but sometimes it means times like this, Steve’s gaze meeting his, their bodies close, Steve’s hand creeping up Danny’s thigh under the table.

Danny jumps and then immediately makes a show of rubbing the hot—burning—patch on his leg where Steve’s hand had been.

“You’re not pretending.” Danny asks without asking, fidgeting for half a second before shoving the mess of lime away from him. He gets spilled salt on his hands. It feels weird, annoying and kind of uncomfortable, stinging, but he’s getting used to that sort of thing, because he barely even pauses to swipe it off. He licks some from the back of his hand and ignores the horny commando next to him when the sight makes the man exhale noisily.

The thing is, Danny reflects as the salt hits his tongue, Steve holds back a lot, too much, partnership evidently not a two-way street in the Seals, but he doesn’t lie.

Danny swallows, glancing back over before setting his jaw.

Steve lifts his chin. He’s looking sort of caveman again, a well-groomed, well-mannered, finely cut and inked caveman, it’s true, but a caveman just the same. Like if Danny doesn’t watch his step, it’s bash Danny over the head, ‘let me show you my etchings of bulls inside my cozy cave’ time.

“Is this it?” he demands, again without much thought, but hey, tequila here, and Steve blinks a few times. He opens his mouth, but Danny waves him down. “I am sure that whatever was going to come out of your mouth right now would have been golden, really, but before you go on, allow me a moment to stem the tide of tequila-influenced game that was about to rain down on me.”

“You realize that you make no sense.” Steve’s tone is both amused and heavy with frustration, which makes Danny feel proud and pleased with himself until he catches on that Steve’s gaze is staying right with him. On him. Observing things. Taking note. It makes Danny feel like a piece of steak, which is not entirely a horrible feeling; Steve really likes steak.

“Pucker up and kiss it, McGarrett. I don’t need to make sense. I’ve got right on my side, you Neanderthal.”

He has no idea why he is still talking, except that talking is what he does. But every word just intensifies that thing that is still shimmering between them, and if he’s surprised by this, Steve doesn’t seem to be.

“You’re mixing metaphors, Danno.” The asshole manages to sound _fond_.

“Metaphors?” Danny pokes at his “Bottom’s Up” shot glass with the grass skirt and the _feet_ , and then at the air. “I got a metaphor for you. _You_ , Princess Tough Guy, got the technique of a caveman with a hard on. You are fucking Homo _Erectus_ with a club and a fur toga, and I hate to break it to you, but I am not a cave lady. It’s going to take more than a knock on the head and a hand up my leopard print skirt, thank you very much.”

“And before you say anything else about my choice of leopard print having anything to do with my state of origin, remember that I am not the one who is going to feel embarrassed come the light of morning.”

Annoyed, yes. Horny, definitely yes. Frustrated that Lt. Commander Steve McfuckingGarrett had decided to put an end to the humming tension between them with a few nearly-slurred words that lacked even the finesse of “Come here often?, _fuck_ yes.

He points at the air again before frowning and dragging his hands through his hair. “You are ridiculous, really. While it’s almost worth it to see Mr. Perfect fuck up this badly, it’s just… _fuck_.” He truly means that.

“May I speak now?” There are those manners again. Danny works his hand in a combination of a gracious go ahead and a go fuck yourself and Steve ducks in to continue, not lowering his volume at all.

“You’re serious?” Danny isn’t the only frustrated one at least. Steve’s head goes back the longer he squints and glares and tries to figure Danny out, his constipated face front and center until he nods with sudden decision. Constipation face has been replaced with the blank one, the scary one, the ‘I know which building is going to explode and you don’t’ face. Except for his eyes, which continue to glow with intent.

Danny’s mouth is dry, so he reaches over and pours himself a shot. He can call a cab.

Steve watches him and then pours himself one. Neither of them drink right away, though Steve has made one move, toward the salt.

His tongue licks skin, warm-looking skin, on the inside of his wrist. Then he looks up, not quite through his eyelashes. The bastard.

“You’re going to be difficult,” Steve remarks with husky calm, which really, really, ought to get Danny’s attention, only it’s starting to sink in that he just rejected sex with Steve McGarrett due to his girly sensibilities. This is his life. “I should have accounted for that.”

“Don’t beat yourself up too much. You can’t be perfect at everything,” Danny rasps in fake sympathy as Steve’s wrist is duly salted and then slowly—so slowly—licked by Steve’s tongue. The man even grins as he downs his shot, and then it’s all wet, slurping, lime-flavored suction.

Danny takes his shot _sans_ salt, and feels like a cock-teasing prom date as he takes his lime into his mouth under Steve’s totally fucking riveted attention.

“So what will it take?” Steve is all deep-voiced inquiry, Cro-Magnon man at an ice cream social, deadly serious about which sherbet Danny prefers.

“Oh no. No no no no.” Danny shakes his head and the room shakes with him a little. They’d been through this in case after case, Steve pretending to listen to talks of rules and regs and protocol and civil liberties and then not an hour later presenting Danny with terrified but talking witnesses and barely-legal justice system reach arounds. Always with the smile and maybe a nudge like Danny was supposed to be _pleased_ , as though those absolutely insane efforts to bring down criminals had been done on Danny’s behalf, with Danny’s fucking _sensibilities_ in mind. As though hidden bungee cords and non-man-eating sharks were diamonds and a boxes of Godiva on Valentine’s Day and Danny was supposed to go all gooey and weak in the knees.

It was just one knee, and that had nothing to do with it.

“I don’t know who you’ve been datin—screwing, McGarrett, but Danny Williams doesn’t work like that. You want this side of beef, you have to work for it.”

It was, possibly, not the brightest thing he could have said, but Danny had his standards, and a job he enjoyed when he wasn’t being shot at, and a team he was learning to trust, and a partner he, well…he wasn’t risking those for a drunken pass most likely forgotten in the morning.

“So I should sharpen my spear?” Steve wondered with all apparent innocence and Danny threw up his hands.

“Maybe when you say that, that “I want to fuck you” thing, oh sex god Navy Seal McGarrett, the guys and girls drop to their knees—oh my God. When you say that the guys and girls drop to their knees, don’t they? Why do I ask these things?” He asks the sky. It’s Steve who answers. The son of a bitch doesn’t even blush.

“But not you, Danno.” For a few long, interesting, tempting seconds, Danny thinks Steve looks happy, fucking _happy_ at this pronouncement about Danny’s ability to hold his ground, and then Steve wrinkles his nose. “It’s seriously annoying. Right now we could be--”

“I got it, Picasso. I do not need the picture.”

Fucking tequila. Danny is on fire all over, like this God-and-good-food-forsaken island isn’t hot enough. He’s hot and dizzy and so, so thirsty.

“Damn right, not me,” he insists, though to be honest he’s not sure what he’s saying, or why, exactly, he hasn’t dropped down under the table to do what he wants to do. Maybe he’s had too much experience with bad relationships, or it’s that he _is_ a tease, or maybe, it’s that trusting someone who doesn’t listen to him with his heart—because that would so be involved here—would be spectacularly stupid, even for a man who now gets shot at for a living.

“Because I am special,” he goes on, because why not, it’s a fifty dollar bottle sitting there and they can both block this out in the morning, or fake it. Steve’s eyes light up, and the man actually, swear to God, leans forward like the computer that is his brain—when it’s not primal and monkey-like—is taking notes. Danny straightens and taps his chest, hoping barely-not-a-gorilla-anymore-Steve will understand the gesture. “I am smart, dedicated, confidant police detective with great hair and decent taste in neckwear, whatever you think. I am one of a kind.”

“I know that,” Steve interrupts, like it’s Danny on the short bus time again, but still observing him, dividing, conquering, Danny doesn’t really know, but he feels like dinner until Steve nods with that same firm decision and leans back to let Danny breathe.

To be honest, he leans back a little too far in his wobbly chair, but the man _is_ a hair shy of shit-faced and Danny is so grateful to be breathing cool air that isn’t filled with everything he could want in one annoying sexy package that he doesn’t comment.

Besides, another thought occurs to him at the same time, one that makes adrenaline and excitement and, sadly, yes, for he is this pathetic, arousal, flood through his body despite the heavy tequila in his bloodstream.

He has just dangled himself on a string in front of a big, friendly predator. He might as well have covered himself in honey-mesquite barbecue sauce or have on a Raquel Welch bikini. Possibly both, though that’s a little kinky and outside of his normal tastes.

On the other hand, what hasn’t Steve McGarrett talked him into already? What couldn’t he convince him to do, if Danny really wanted him to?

“You want to fuck me.” He can even say it at a normal volume level. _He_ is not the wasted one who almost fucked up everything here.

“Yeah.” Steve shrugs. Without taking his eyes from Danny, he grabs his empty shot glass and pulls it to him. “But I can wait.”

It would be the height of stupidity to ask.

“Wait?” Danny does anyway, because this is his life, and in his life, Steve is, sort of, kind of, listening to him during their cases and sometimes outside of them. In his life, they might even be dating. Which is totally crazy and ludicrous and insane but so is everything else in Danny’s life now but Grace and it’s very possible that he’s getting used to it because he can’t think of anything else to say.

Steve, of course, acts like Danny’s silence is a victory and splashes tequila into his shot glass and shoves the salt shaker at Danny. His face is not a new one, but this time Danny reads it as the same sick ass delight the man takes in driving at hundred miles an hour along a cliff’s edge and in saying “Book ‘em, Danno” and in sneaking pineapple into Danny’s food.

Danny feels…kind of like he’s been struck in the head, hard, whacked a good one that he didn’t even remotely see coming while cartoon stars circle his head, and Steve McfuckingGarrett smiles, _smiles_ at him, patient, circling like a man-eating-after-all-shark and yes, Danny is mixing his metaphors, but he does not care, and grabs Danny’s shot glass too.

He pours añejo into Danny’s shot glass, with the grass skirt, with the _feet_ \--and New Jersey is supposed to be the tacky state?—and then lifts up his own.

Danny has no idea what the fuck they are toasting to, except how he does, and fucking tequila, he shivers when their eyes meet, when they are staring and breathing hard and waiting. Then he downs his shot, without even a wince.

 

The End


End file.
